Douglas Preston - Two Graves

“It’s from the New-York Inquirer , 1879,” Felder said. “It’s titled Guttersnipes at Play .”

Constance stared at the engraving for a long time. Then she brushed it gently, almost lovingly, with her fingertips before folding it again and handing it back to Felder. “You keep this in your wallet, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I, ah, consult it from time to time. Trying to unravel the mystery, I suppose.”

Constance continued to regard him. It might have been Felder’s imagination, but he thought that the look in her eyes softened. After another moment, she began to speak.

“Back when that engraving was made,” she said, “newspaper illustrations were done by artists in the field. They would make pen-and-ink drawings, pencil sketches, charcoal—whatever—of things they felt colorful or newsworthy. They would submit their artwork to the newspaper, where professional engravers would reproduce it in a form that could be printed.”

She nodded again at the folded paper, still clasped in Felder’s hand. “I recall when that drawing was made. The artist was illustrating a series of articles on the tenement districts of New York. He did that sketch and then, I suppose taken by my appearance, he asked to paint my portrait. My parents were already dead, so he asked my older sister. She agreed. When the work was finished, he gave her his preliminary pencil sketches for the portrait by way of payment.”

“Where are those studies?” Felder asked eagerly.

“Long gone. But in gratitude, my sister gave him a lock of my hair in return. Gifts of such locks were very common then. I recall the artist putting the snippet of hair into a small envelope and pasting it to the inside of his portfolio cover.”

She paused. “The name of the artist was Alexander Wintour. If you could find his portfolio, perhaps the lock might still be inside. It’s a long shot, I admit. But if you did, and the portfolio hadn’t been disturbed, a simple DNA test would prove what I say: that I am almost a century and a half old.”

“Yes,” Felder murmured, shaking his head. “Yes, it would.” He wrote down the artist’s name on the back of the picture, folded it up, and slipped it back into his wallet. “Thank you again for seeing me, Constance.” He stood up.

“Certainly, Doctor.”

He shook her hand and exited the library. For the first time in days, he felt a spring in his step, a feeling of renewed vigor in his limbs.

And then, on the front steps of Mount Mercy, he paused again.

Why was Constance doing this? She had always seemed supremely indifferent as to whether people believed her or not. Something had changed.

But what? And why?

13

D’AGOSTA CHECKED HIS CELL PHONE, SAW THAT IT WAS sixty seconds before one o’clock. If what he’d heard about Special Agent Conrad Gibbs was true, the man would be arriving on the dot.

D’Agosta felt uneasy. Most of his previous experience with the FBI had been through Pendergast, and he realized this was probably worse than no preparation at all. Pendergast’s methods, operation, and mentality were alien if not hostile to standard FBI culture.

He gave a once-over to the coffee from Starbucks and the dozen doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, laid out on the little sitting area in his office, and then a final glance at his watch.

“Lieutenant D’Agosta?”

And there he was, standing in the door. D’Agosta rose with a smile. His first impression was good. True, Special Agent Gibbs was a product of the mold: buttoned down and by the book, handsome, chiseled, an off-the-rack suit covering his trim physique, his brown hair cut close, his thin lips and narrow face tanned from his past assignment in the Florida Panhandle—D’Agosta had gone out of his way to check up. At the same time, he had an open, pleasant look about him, and the humorless demeanor was far better than a wiseass or better-than-thou attitude.

They shook hands and D’Agosta found Gibbs’s grasp firm, not crushing, brief and to the point. He walked around his desk and led the agent to the sitting area, where they both sat down.

They opened with some pleasant chitchat about the weather and the differences between New York and Florida. D’Agosta asked about the agent’s last case, which he had concluded with great success—a run-of-the-mill serial killer who scattered the pieces of his victims in the dunes. Gibbs was soft-spoken and clearly intelligent. D’Agosta appreciated the former quality a great deal. Aside from making him easier to work with, it would go a long way with his squad—although, to be sure, most of his squad members were loudmouthed in the typical New York sort of way.

The only problem was, as Gibbs went on about his case, he was starting to sound suspiciously long-winded. And he wasn’t eating anything… while D’Agosta was just about dying for a Caramel Kreme Crunch.

“As you probably know, Lieutenant,” Gibbs was saying, “down in Quantico we maintain a comprehensive database of serial killers as part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. We define a serial killer as follows: a perpetrator who targets strangers, who has killed three or more people, for motives of psychological gratification, usually with a consistent or evolving signature in each killing.”

D’Agosta nodded sagely.

“In this case we only have two killings, so it doesn’t meet the definition—yet. But I think we all agree there’s a high probability of more to come.”

“Absolutely.”

Gibbs removed a slender folder from his briefcase. “When we first heard from Captain Singleton yesterday morning, we did a quick-and-dirty run-through on our database.”

D’Agosta leaned forward. Now things were getting interesting.

“We wanted to find out if there were any other serial killers who left pieces of their own body at the scene, who had the right M.O., et cetera.” He laid the folder on the coffee table. “Granted, these are preliminary findings, but we can keep this between ourselves. I’ll summarize, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

“We have an organized killer here. Very organized. He is educated, has money, and is comfortable in luxury surroundings. The dismemberment M.O. is not as uncommon as you might think—dozens of serials fit that profile—but usually such killers take away body parts. This one doesn’t. In fact, he leaves his own body parts at the scene—something completely unique.”

“Interesting,” said D’Agosta. “Any thoughts on that?”

“The head of our forensic psychology unit is working that angle. He believes the killer identifies with the victim. He’s essentially killing himself serially. He is someone full of self-loathing who was almost certainly abused sexually and psychologically as a child, told he was no good, better off dead or not born, that sort of thing.”

“That makes sense.”

“The aggressor appears normal on the surface. Since he has no inhibitions and will say anything to get what he wants, and very convincingly, he can be charming and even charismatic. Underneath, however, he is a deeply pathological individual, utterly lacking in empathy.”

“Why does he kill?”

“That’s the crux of the matter: he almost certainly has libidinous gratification.”

“Libidinous? But no semen was found and there doesn’t seem to be a sexual component. And his second victim was an older man.”

“Correct. Let me explain something. Our database is built on what we call aggregates and correlations. What I’m telling you about this killer is based on a high degree of correlation with dozens of others with a similar profile and M.O. It’s also based on interviews with over two thousand serial killers who answered questions about why and how they did what they did. It’s not infallible, but it’s pretty damn close. Everything points to this killer getting a sexual charge out of what he’s doing.”